"What! must you go? next time I hope You'll give me longer measure; Nay--I shall see you down the stairs-- (With most uncommon pleasure!) "Good-bye! good-bye! remember all, Next time you'll take your dinners! (Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners!") SHOOTING PAINS. "The charge is prepar'd."--_Macheath._ If I shoot any more I'll be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have march'd the whole day With a gun,--for no pay-- Zounds, I'd better have been in the army! What matters Sir Christopher's leave; To his manor I'm sorry I came yet! With confidence fraught My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet! And that gamekeeper too, with advice! Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!" Not Hawker could find out a flaw,-- My appointments are modern and Mantony; And I've brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can't find a mark for my Anthony! The partridges,--where can they lie? I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me,--I'm getting quite nervous! To the pheasants--how well they're preserv'd!-- My sport's not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy, And so send "silver pheasants and golden." I have tried ev'ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, With toil unrelax'd, Till my patience is tax'd, But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder. I've been roaming for hours in three flats, In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for "setting my cap at!" A woodcock,--this month is the time,-- Right and left I've made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But 'spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for! A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; This day's the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y. For a mallard I've waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake--oh! Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco! For a field-fare I've fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a black-bird! I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem overloaded. As well one might beat round St. Paul's, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have search'd round and round, All the Baronet's ground, But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!